Daffodil and the Mud Puddle (Narcissus poeticus)

Came to be used as the name for “daffodil,” but we are unclear on which came first—the man in the myth, or Narcissus poeticus. The narcissistic chicken or the egg-like bulby flowers.

This is what they had said. The same one—Pliny The Elder—to turn the phrase, “home is where the heart is,” says the flower is named for it’s scent: “I grow numb.” But not for the young hunter.

Imagine Daffodil at a mud puddle. Water cloudy with muddling, maybe Bacchus had come through in a dance. Daffodil stares at that water ignoring any footprints that had come in or out. Wonders (like flowers do).

Narcissus, that hunter, is said to be what we know well. Self-absorbed with his own beauty, disdained those that loved him. Led to the pool that led him to his death.

Get this, the “lead em to the pool” character is literally named Nemesis. Seriously. “Nemesis.” It’s a bit heavy handed, no?

Maybe more than Nemesis was to blame. Maybe not.

The rest is vain, and deadly, history. “I grow numb.” I stay here until I can’t care enough to leave.

Things (creatures) in the forest tried to reason with Daffodil. Snake, Beaver, Tiger, Spider. She apologized in tears and flitted past them. “I’m sorry you had to look at me, I’m sorry I was even here.”

“you’re a Narcissist: get over yourself” : “you’re a daffodil: get over yourself”

“you’re my Nemesis: you’re trying to destroy me” : “you brought me here: I chose to look.”

“The things didn’t match the terms. Why don't you see that?” Daffodil didn’t have a good answer to that. She did what she does. She wintered. She worried about Nemesis. She still does. All the plants look different.

 “I am sludge, why leave this sludge.” : It is me” : “You are singular, why trust puddles.”

“I grow numb.”

And that’s it. No moral to the story. The “so what?” is this: There are a lot of puddles, and they have various levels of scry-ability.  Because everything isn’t a metaphor, yet this particular Lego of mythology is in so many death-stars of personal, and cruel, attacks.

Stepping on a Lego when barefooted is a specific pain. If you remember it from childhood it is likely unlike other things. You construct your adult life with particular contracts with Legos, and where they will or will not live in your adult life.

I don’t have any Legos. Pollen does enough damage to my eyes, ears, nose, throat. I’m not specifically allergic to daffodils more than I’m allergic to Legos, or ad hominem insults. I carry varying degrees of numbness to the three. Legos, maybe the least.